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Heart to Heart – Rita Dove

It’s neither red
nor sweet.
It doesn’t melt
or turn over,
break or harden,

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Decades Ago – Michael Miller 

 

Shoveling the snow
As if I were shoveling
Death away, my gloved hands
Gripping the handle firmly,

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Weather Systems – Barbara Crooker 

Sugar maples, little fires in the trees, every blazing gradation
of orange to red, and this makes me think of you, the way
you press the long length of your body against me, the heat
seeping through flannel, my own private furnace.

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While the Backwoods Burned – Andrea Jurjevic 

 

Stories? I prefer what fits in two-or-three words, like not being scared.

Today nothing rhymes.

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